Lucy
by BBBKA
Summary: Some rescues are rougher than others.


_The poem quoted in this story is "Lucinda Matlock" from __**Spoon River Anthology**__ by Edgar Lee Masters, and it is in Public Domain. If you haven't read it, you should. It's a beautiful poem._

One of the first things John Gage learned during Paramedic training was the importance of controlling his facial expressions during a rescue. It would never do for an injured person to see fear or desperation on his face, and so John learned to keep a calm, expressionless mask in place even in the most serious situations.

It wasn't an easy lesson for a man who was described by his instructors as compassionate and impulsive, but he mastered it along with the soothing yet authoritative voice necessary for dealing with frightened patients. Paramedic certification may have been about learning the technical aspects of saving lives, but success at the job required an entirely different set of skills.

Today's extrication was no exception. The instant he and his partner Roy DeSoto arrived on scene, they knew it was going to be a bad one.

A semi truck had lost control on the rain-slick hill, slamming into everything in its way - including a large old oak tree, which had broken off and fallen into traffic. Most of the vehicles had only minor damage with few injuries, but a blue station wagon had taken the brunt of the impact.

"There's a woman in there," the police officer told them. "I can hear her, but I can't see her."

For a split second, John and Roy stared at the wreck in disbelief. Everything from the front seat forward was crushed beneath the weight of the massive oak. How anyone could be alive in there was beyond them.

Then training kicked in, and the men wrenched open the rear hatch of the wagon. As the slimmer of the two men, John climbed in and squirmed toward the victim.

"Hello?" She called out, her voice surprisingly strong. "Is someone back there?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm John Gage, Los Angeles County Fire Department. How're you doing?"

"Not bad . . . considering the tree on my chest."

He had reached her by then. She was a heavyset woman somewhere on the far side of middle-age, with her head tilted back against the headrest and everything below hidden beneath the tree. Without moving her head, she rolled her eyes upward to look into his face.

"My neck hurts," she told him. I'm afraid to move."

"That's pretty smart of you. I'm going to put a collar on you to help hold it still. Where else do you hurt?"

"Well . . . there's a tree on me, John."

He couldn't help it; he grinned. "What's your name, Sweetheart?" He asked.

"Lucy. But I like 'Sweetheart' too."

"Okay, Lucy. We're gonna get you out of here." Her face was pale and sweaty, slightly grayish in tone; her breathing was shallow and her pulse was elevated, but she seemed surprisingly alert and calm for someone in her predicament. There was a great deal of blood in her brown hair, and he probed through the curls until he found a deep gash across the crown. She drew in a quick, hissing breath and flinched.

"I'm sorry, Lucy."

"Just . . . doing your job." She closed her eyes.

"I need you stay awake," he told her. "Open your eyes for me, okay?"

She mouthed _okay_ but made no sound. Her eyes opened and her gaze locked with his.

"How bad is it?" She whispered.

"We're doing everything we can. The guys are out there cutting apart the tree so we can lift it off. Then we'll use the Jaws to get you out of here and –"

"It's bad, isn't it?"

For just the tiniest second, he couldn't tear his gaze away. She had tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and deep laugh-lines around her mouth as though she smiled often, and he found himself wanting to tell her the truth: that most of her essential organs were very likely crushed beneath the weight of the tree. That she was probably suffering from massive internal bleeding and he fully expected her to go into shock the second the weight was gone. That her chances of surviving were not good.

He took too long to answer.

"Oh," she said softly. "Oh, I see." Her eyes closed again, and one tear slipped out. "_At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all_."

"Lucy, don't—"

"It's all right, john. . ."

He busied himself taking care of her, shouting out vital signs to Roy and assuring her that she was going to be just fine. He didn't make the mistake of looking her in the eye again. He wasn't going to lose control of his professionalism.

"Today is my twenty-seventh . . . wedding anniversary," she murmured.

"Twenty-seven years? He must be pretty special."

"Oh, yes . . . Are you married, John?"

"No. Ma'am, I am not. Still looking for the right girl."

"Don't look too long . . . love's not all that scary. . . I'm going to miss him. . . "

"Stay awake, Lucy," he reminded her. "Open your eyes for me."

She obeyed, whispering in a sing-song voice, "_I went to the dances at Chandlerville, and played snap-out at Winchester_".

"Is that part of a song?"

"A poem . . . about dying peacefully after a full life . . ._ and_ passed_ to a sweet repose_."

"Aw, come on, Sweetheart. Don't you know any happy poems? _There once was a man from Nantucket –_"

Lucy actually chuckled at that. The tree shifted and she gasped.

"It's all right, I've got you," he murmured, squeezing her shoulder. There was nothing else he could do at this point.

"I think I'll miss the smell of lilacs the most," she sighed. "Davis and I on the porch . . . drinking morning coffee and smelling the lilacs. He's a good man . . . I love him so much. Will—will you tell him I . . . said that?"

"Tell him yourself, Lucy. You're gonna be fine."

"He's not a strong man," she said, sighing again. "This is going to be . . . so hard for him. John, will you do . . . something for me?"

"Sure, anything."

"Tell him . . . tell him I didn't suffer."

"Lucy –"

"Humor a dying woman, damn it!" Her voice rose and her eyes filled with tears. She coughed; John wiped away the flecks of blood from her lips. "He . . . will dwell on it. I don't want him to picture _this_ –" her eyes moved left to right and back up at him again "—when he remembers me. I . . . want him to remember . . . good things."

John opened his mouth and closed it again.

"It's my gift . . . to him. Please."

He nodded wordlessly. Outside the station wagon, there were shouts as men attached chains to what remained of the tree trunk. In a matter of minutes, it would be pulled free and he would be able to treat her. In a matter of minutes, her internal bleeding would be out of control as the tree was lifted.

"Don't give up, Lucy," he said. "They've almost got you out. Just hang on a little bit longer, okay?"

"_What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness . . . anger, discontent and drooping hopes_?" She murmured, smiling. "It's all right, John. I've had a good life . . I'm not alone at the end."

"Hang on, Sweetheart," he told her before bellowing, "Come on, you guys! Get this tree off of her _now_!"

"John? Look at me . . . please."

He looked into her eyes once more.

"Remember," she whispered. "_It takes life to live life_."

She cried out once when the tree was finally dragged away. It was a harsh, guttural cry that was more animal than human, and John felt her body spasm beneath his hands.

"No, Lucy! Don't you give up!" He cried.

The tree was gone; his fellow firemen were using the Jaws of Life to tear away the twisted car frame so they could get her out. He could reach her now, start an IV, treat her injuries, do the work he had been trained to do. He could still save her. He could –

He could see her crushed, broken body now, and he could finally comprehend the extent of her injuries.

He forced the professional mask back into place as he worked with his friends to get her out of the vehicle and prepare her for transport to Rampart General Hospital. He did his job; he calmly, efficiently did everything he was supposed to do on scene and in the ambulance with her, and then he gave her limp, cold hand one last squeeze as she was whisked away into a doctor's care.

When Roy arrived at the hospital with the squad, John was still in the hallway. He was leaning against the wall, staring at nothing.

He answered Roy's questioning glance with a quick shake of his head.

"You okay?" Roy asked.

"Yeah. No. Yeah." John pushed himself away from the wall. "Let's go. I need to get out of here."

"Sure, Junior. Why don't you head out to the squad while I go get supplies? It'll only take a -" Roy stopped as he spotted a burly gray-haired man headed toward them. The man was scowling.

"Which one of you took care of my wife?" He demanded.

"Take it easy, sir," Roy said. "Who is your wife?"

John knew.

"I took care of Lucy," he said.

The man's face softened. "I need to know," he pleaded. "I need to know what . . . how . . .I want . . ."

"She didn't suffer," John promised. "She didn't feel any um, pain, um, because of . . ah, spinal injuries." He was aware of Roy looking at him, but he plowed ahead anyway. "She kept reciting a poem."

"That figures. She's an English teacher. She _was_ an English teacher. Oh, God –" He clamped a hand over his mouth, struggling to stifle his sobs.

John cleared his throat and touched the man's shoulder. "She. . . " he started, and shook himself. He wanted to tell the man about Lucy's final moments; he wanted to talk about her courage, her peaceful acceptance, her final gift to her husband. He ached to say that those few minutes with her made him want to be a better man.

Then he took a deep breath and forced the professional mask into place one more time. "I'm so sorry for your loss," he said stiffly. "Is there anyone who can come get you? Let me take you to one of the nurses who can help you."

John Gage, Paramedic, controlled his emotions and walked the grieving widower down the hall.

He did the job he was trained to do.

_Thanks to Enfleurage for being a fabulous Beta!_


End file.
